


The Love Rug

by Frangipanidownunder



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-08-02 05:38:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16299140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frangipanidownunder/pseuds/Frangipanidownunder
Summary: Stuck in a snowstorm, finding an abandoned cabin, there's only one bed...NSFW tropefest ensues.





	The Love Rug

She rifles through the closet, shivering. The storm outside is raging, pelting the roof with what sounds like bullets. Through the dirty window all she can see is white streaks, snow and hail flying every which way on the howling wind. She blinks and all she sees is brightness behind her eyes. Snow blind. Photokeratitis. Temporary damage to the retina.

Mulder blunders through the door, flashlight in hand. “No go, Scully,” he says. “The lines must be down, mobile and land. We’ll have to wait until the storm passes.”

She sighs, letting his more colourful image settle into her view. “There’s only one room with a bed, Mulder.”

“I’ll take the floor,” he says, then nods to the closet. “Surely there’s some extra bedding in there.”

Returning to her task, her hands land on something soft, bagged in plastic, but lush and bouncy. She pulls it out, hugging it to her chest. Its heavy weight is immediately comforting. She rests her chin on the bundle as she manoeuvres it round and lands it on the single bed pushed against the wall. Mulder runs the beam of his flashlight over it as thunder rumbles around.

“What’s this?” he says, and his voice is a pitch too high for her liking.

She peers at the booty. “It’s a blanket, I think.”

He laughs. A kind of shocked cough, really. “It’s a Love Rug,” he says. “In Lynx.” He leans closer. “As you stroke, it strokes.”

She reads the label too. “It’s almost like having another lover there with the two of you. Well, Mulder,” she says to him, suddenly finding another bright spot outside of the storm. “Looks like you’ve got company tonight.”

He grins. “I’m a good little spoon, Scully. If you want the two of us in with you.”

“I think I’ll be just fine here.” She throws a pillow at him and he staggers back to sit on the bed. “The model does have an amazing head of hair, Mulder. It’s almost as thick and luxurious as the Love Rug.”

“Do you think this is what Skinner’s hair was like, back in the day, Scully?”

She can’t help but let rip with a giggle. It’s been a long, slow and fucking cold day. The storm was bound to break. And of course, the rental car couldn’t cope with the mountainous roads. It was just blind luck that the cabin’s porch light was visible. And dumb luck that the door was open. “I reckon his chest hair is as magnificent now as the hair on his head was. Back in the day,” she adds.

“Are you going to be able to sleep, Scully?”

“I can sleep pretty much anywhere, but what about you, Mulder? The Love Rug is a little softer than your couch.”

“You know me, Scully. I’m always ready to martyr myself to the cause.”

He rolls the rug over the floor and slips off his boots and outer layers. He wraps himself into a furry tube with just his messy hair poking out. Her own meagre bedding is threadbare and reeks of stale sweat. There are more lumps and bumps in the mattress than a cobbled street. She tosses and turns for a while before Mulder shines his flashlight up at her.

“Get down here, Scully,” he growls, opening the entrance and allowing her to slide in next to him. She burrows into the warm space he’s created and he wraps an arm snugly around her. “It’s pretty good, isn’t it?”

She hums in agreement and wriggles back against him. He’s a good big spoon, too. His hand rises and gently brushes over her chest. “Sorry, Scully.” His breath is hot on her neck.

“S’okay.”

“If you want to be big spoon, let me know.”

“Actually, that’s the side I usually sleep on,” she says and they scramble to turn over. The wind shrieks outside, rattling the glass in the windowframes. She tucks her arm around Mulder’s waist and presses herself against his lean body. He’s a marvel, all planes and angles, hard in contrast to the soft surrounds. The rug under them and over them really does feel like animal fur and even the slightest movement sends sparks through her skin, pulsing at her centre and making her nipples stand up to attention.

“Still cold, Scully?” He’s half-laughing and she rolls her eyes, certain he can feel her lashes against his back.

His breathing slows and comforts her despite the weather raging outside. Her hand relaxes around his waist and her fingers brush his…well, clearly he’s not cold. She pulls her hand back but he wriggles and she finds the same spot. He sighs back into her and she’s not sure if he’s asleep already or just…really comfortable. His hand finds hers and he links his fingers through, pulling their joint fists down to rest on his groin.

With a slight rock forward, their entwined hands make a nest in their own fluffy nest and it seems wrong not to explore what might come of these forced circumstances. There’s a rumble in his chest that she senses with her cheek pressed against his lungs from the back. His cock twitches under their hands as the dance continues. Her own heat is rising and she lifts a knee over his thigh, feels the tight roundness of his glutes against her centre. He twists his head so his lips swipe her forehead. A few more gentle pitches and he turns over again, facing her, kissing the top of her head, running his hands along her ribcage, sending her synapses into meltdown. Spark, hiss, spark, hiss.

“Scully,” he says, finding a nipple under her shirt and squeezing.

“Yeah?” She responds by slipping her hand into his boxers and finding his cock filling her palm.

“You feel amazing. I feel amazing. This rug feels amazing. How did we go from stormy mountain road to love rug?”

“Maybe the love rug has something infused into the pile, something that forces people to act out.”

He chuffs out a snort. “Did you just come up with a bizarre theory, Dr Scully?”

There’s a wetness building in her palm and between her legs. She wants him to touch her. Needs him to touch her. She hasn’t felt this turned on in years. It’s like her whole body is electric with desire. She imagines sparks and flames snapping off her skin as she envelopes him. Maybe it’s not just a bizarre theory. She sniffs the woollen tufts of the rug. Inhales.

“Hnnnnggggg, Scully,” he says, breathless as she pumps him, “what are you doing?”

“I believe it’s called mutual masturbation.”

He slips one finger into her panties and swipes up then down. “I meant the sniffing, but if you want mutual…”

“Oh,” she says and dips her head onto his warm chest, enjoying the sensation of the sparse hair there against the skin of her forehead. “I was trying to detect any stimulants in the pile.”

“Aphrodisiacs laced into the weave of a rug that was discovered, still wrapped in its original packaging and left in a closet in the only bedroom of an abandoned cabin on a snowy mountain road discovered by two hard-working, previously platonic FBI partners? Sounds like a bad fanfiction.”

She lifts her hips towards the heel of his hands so the pressure builds. “Sounds like a fantastic fanfiction, Mulder.”

The love rug keeps them stimulated and warm during the awkward removal of underwear and when their naked bodies are finally pressed fully together she can’t help the stinging tears that prickle at her eyes. He’s not just defined and welcoming, he’s so perfectly moulded to her form that it’s like she’s been growing towards this moment for the whole of her life. His hands are everywhere, touching, exploring, brushing and stroking and the small murmurs of surprise when he discovers a new or soft of wet spot add to her own experience.

Finally, he slides over the top of her. “I figure it’s easier this way, warmer,” he says, smothering kisses over the column of her neck. She arches up to him as his cock nudges at her swollen entrance. He inches in and the press and roll of his hip bones against hers is delicious.

“I can’t believe this,” she whispers. The feel of him stretching her sets off a chain of motion from her toes to the roots of her hair. Gooseflesh stipples her skin. Her breath leaves her mouth in rhythmical pants and as he sets his pace, she meets each of his thrusts so that the rug slips and slides around them.

It’s dark inside the cocoon they’ve made but her shadowed vision just adds to the ambience. Soft, muted, warmth, the polar opposite of the storm outside. He’s stoking a fire they’ve both fantasised about starting, melting her so she fuses to his body. Outside, the icy wind is howling, sticking snow to the frozen windows. Inside, she’s sighing into his shoulder as it rolls against her cheek. There’s no hiding from the inevitable. There’s no shelter from the heat rising.

“I’m close,” he says. “I won’t be able to…”

She digs her fingers into his ass and pushes her hips up and her world explodes. He shudders and cries out an ecstatic ‘Scully’ at the exact moment she growls out her ‘Mulder’. There’s a white out behind her eyes. Nothing but silvery-bright flashes. Temporary damage to the retinas, she muses as she comes down.

Her fingers grasp the woollen tufts of their surrounds, rubbing the softness in circles. The love rug. It’s a remnant of the crassness of the 1970s, along with crocheted ponchos and fat moustaches. But she snuggles down further and lets the storm outside rage as the calm inside settles through her veins.


End file.
